Pippo followed him nothing loath, composing the muscles of his face into an expression better suited to the sacredness of the place. Since Peregrine had a mind to pray, pray he might. His own will in the matter might now be safely accorded him. In Pippo’s eyes he had proved himself.
Pippo dropped on one knee before the hanging pyx, followed Peregrine into the dark oak pew. He saw the candles gleaming on the altar, their light commingling with the waning evening light. And over all was the quiet awe, the brooding stillness of the Hidden Presence.
A moment or so later a long line of monks entered the church, passed leisurely into the stalls.
“Jube, domne, benedicere,” began the reader.
“Noctem quietam, et finem perfectum concedat nobis Dominus omnipotens,” came the blessing.
Pippo glanced momentarily sideways at Peregrine’s profile, saw his face peaceful, grave. A wave of sudden warmth struck on the boy’s heart, a new admiration for the man beside him. He saw in him a fighting saint, a very St. George, protector of the weak and defenceless. Such another would he be himself in manhood, loving Christ and His Mother, champion of all wrong. The warmth at his heart brought a glow to his cheeks. The thought of his friendship raised him in his own estimation, which for that matter was at all times none so low. Anon he caught the sung words.
“Irascimini, et nolite peccare....”
To the context he paid little heed. Here again he saw Peregrine, saw him angered yet without sin, thrashing a very burly fellow soundly. Pippo, I fear me, paid but scant attention to the service; Peregrine absorbed his mind.
Later a movement brought him back to his surroundings. The monks were crossing to the statue of the Madonna, there to end the week with an antiphon in her honour. Somewhat tardily Pippo recognized his wandering thoughts.
“Salve Regina, Mater misericordiæ,” he sang, his clear treble joining with the deeper voices, seeking to do atonement by the lustiness of his present singing. He gave full ear to the prayer that followed; crossed himself devoutly at the words, Divinum auxilium maneat semper nobiscum. Nevertheless his conscience pricked him somewhat.